The Man with the Greasy Moustache
by Arda's Angel
Summary: 1940's detectiveGroucho is baffled by this humorous case. This was written by my younger brother who cannot register yet. I will forward all reviews to him...hint hint REVIEW!


**Disclaimer:** No….the Marx brothers are not mine…if they were, do you really think that I'd be reduced to posting my works through my sister's name on this site????                                 

          This case started with a confused dame. But she wasn't the only confused one because I had no clue what a dame was. I was in my office, toying with a new deck of cards. I have no clue exactly _how _to toy around with a deck of cards but, believe me---I was. She came in sobbing and looked around my joint. "Hey," I said, "If you take a picture it'll last longer". She looked up, blushing. She said, "Oh. Can you help me?" I sensed that she was not exactly the brightest sun in the solar system so I decided to toy with her for awhile. You know, to give the cards a rest. I said, "Probably. But first, choose a card any card" as I started to fan out the deck. The stranger reached a small, delicate hand out of her crocodile purse. She quietly selected a card from the bicycle deck. She was a pro at these magic tricks, so she looked at her card, memorizing it. "I said go ahead. Keep it. I've got fifty one left."

          She looked at me like I was some sort of bizarre monkey. _Come on_, I thought to myself, _it took you that long to realize that,_ but I didn't say it. That's how I lost a couple clients. So sucking in my gut and keeping my wits to myself, I finally said, "So, what brings you here doll-face" She nodded and said, "Well, these two French pickpockets stole a Tiffany from me. Oh how I loved that Tiffany. Whoa is me" Looks like someone had too many drama lessons. "And is Tiffany your daughter?" I asked. "No you twit," she snapped, "It's a necklace. God, some people can be so stupid" Oh great. It's a client with an attitude. "And do you remember what these pickpockets looked like," I said, trying to make a point that the wise cracks didn't phase me.

          "Yes," she said. Something told me that she was about to tell me but I missed my cue. "One had black, oily hair and a strong Italian accent" Wait just a cotton picking minute. Didn't she say they were French? "And the other didn't speak but had an enormous red blob of curly hair" That's when it hit her that I knew about the Italian-French identity crisis.

          "So, I said, "Where were you when this necklace was stolen?" Meanwhile, she wasn't listening to a word a was saying. She started to cry when she was talking about the Tiffany. Now, she was trying to wipe off the tears without messing up her makeup. _Hmm.., _I thought to myself, _didn't I have an Italian brother and one with curly hair. Come to think of it, he didn't talk too much._ "Wait a second," I called out abruptly, "I have brothers that match that description" I was interrupted by an ugly, croak of a voice. It was my client. "Nobody cares about your family tree," she said. Well, I think she said it. It sounded more like cat being strangled by a parrot. Or maybe the other way around, I'm not sure which. 

          "Are you going to help me or not?" the lady demanded. "How can I with out knowing your name?" I'm always quick to get the last word. She said suavely, "It's Dumont. Margaret Dumont." Why does the girl always steal the guy's lines in parodies? As it turned out, and it _did_ turn out, she lost it in France. If you didn't have to think twice about the _French_ pickpockets living in _France_, then go buy yourself a new deck of cards. That way you can toy around with them.

          Next thing I know I'm in France. People can do wonders with these frequent flier mile things. Whether I like it or not with Ms. Dumont, as pretty as she is, she is a pain in the rear quarters as well. Being polite about things makes up for the gentleman you lost as a child. Unfortunately, I never had any gentleman as a child. Now that you feel bad for be how about buying a cappuccino for me? If you said you wouldn't then don't even bother reading the other half. If you said you would you're a man after my own heart. But, a deal's a deal… pay up or get lost, chump! 

          Lucky for me the in flight movie was, "Animal Crackers" Although I hate to say it, I love that movie more than I love the mystery business. Who am I kidding? I love to say it! But laughter was the last thing I had on my mind. The first thing I won't get into talking about. It's not important. But important things were my business. Well, sometimes. After several laughing fits from the movie and getting emotionally constipated from Ms. Dumont's soapbox speech, I think I finally learned the definition of pain. If you think you know what pain is, you obviously haven't read _my_ dictionary.

          Finally landing in a French airport, my eyes and feet told me that it was time to retire. Not from detecting, mind you, from Ms. Dumont. "No one likes it when you narrate the story in your mind," she snapped.  _Great_, I thought myself, _now she's a mind reader_. Keeping my steps in line with my attitude and keeping my eyes fixed on Ms. Dumont, I couldn't help noticing something. If she has a crocodile purse she must be pretty wealthy. Why doesn't she just _buy_ another Tiffany? These thoughts circled around my head faster than cheetah doing the electric slide. But I had no time for feline dance grooves. I just had a case, Ms. Dumont, and I.

          People say that there is no time like the present. But if the present is a living nightmare and you're stuck with the scariest looking beast you've ever seen, and then give me all the presents you can afford. But getting back to the Tiffany case, what was so special about a stupid little chain with a heart on it. Besides, the one I gave my girlfriend was the kind in a 25 cents machine. I don't know what I've been told, but this whole joke of a case was pretty old. And Ms. Dumont smells like mold. Sound off.

          Ms. Dumont stomped her foot, waking my up from my narration. We got into her limo and sped off into the night. "And so," Ms. Dumont spat out, "That is how I became a millionaire" And then the whale of a lady named, Ms. Dumont opened the window. She began shouting to one of her comrades on the street, "Macaroni! Hold the cheese! Crunchatize me Captain!" _What the_ _heck is she saying_, I thought to myself. As I got to the hotel where my residence would spend the night, I figured out what she was saying. Well, not exactly figure out, mind you again, but it had to have been some kind of code she made up. Maybe there was more that meets the eye about Ms. Dumont. And maybe cheese-fries do the hokey-pokey. Ms. Dumont was an ugly lug. I can tell you _that_ much. The other much is taking a vacation. He's sleeping so don't disturb him. Thank you for your courtesy.

          I was tossing and turning all night faster than you can say, "Captain Spaulding" (this Animal Crackers thing was really getting to me) after getting lost several times in the hotel lobby, I decided to sleep outside. Actually I couldn't find my room, so I decided to sleep outside. But we can keep that between ourselves. After all, I had a hunger for mystery and a taste for danger. And from around the corner, sleep lurked up behind me and slapped me in the side of my head. Or it could have been a criminal mastermind who finally found the right moment to catch me. Sometimes I can't tell which. My bet was on the second answer. Is that your _final_ answer?

          As luck would have it, the criminal mastermind was just who I suspected. The only problem was I had no one _to_ suspect. _I could use a lead right about now_, I thought to myself. Nothing happened. Excuse me but that is your cue. Aw, skip it. _Hold yer horses ya old coot, _I thought again to myself. And in one confusing blur of thought, I figured out the case. Well, most of it anyway. _Why did Ms. Dumont come to me, a detective, if she knew what the pickpockets looked like? She could have gone to the Cops. _And all at once I knew Margaret M. Dumont. The "M." probably stands for monster. Now I had a double shot of espresso, a hard-as-rock mattress on my bed, and a criminal mastermind all wrapped up in a zesty soft, doughy taco shell.

          I knew Ms. Dumont was one tough cookie but this oatmeal raisin business was getting ridiculous! I didn't know when to make my move, by exposing her, I mean. She had me all wrapped up in her spider web tighter then thong on a hot summer morning. I decided to play along with her little game of charades for a wee bit longer. At times like this I ask myself one question, "_Since when do I say 'wee'" _ 

          The morning arrived like a glass of Pepto-Bismol. Brisk and unwelcome. I stepped out side the hotel for a breath of fresh morning air. It was one of the best gulps of oxygen I have ever had. That's including coming out of a bar filled with smokers. Sure I had a cigar but hey? Who doesn't? The fresh morning breeze stopped the moment I heard a familiar voice. Ms. Dumont's chilly, heartless croak, I mean voice, echoed down my spine. That does not say much for James Earl Jones's belting pipes. Ah, to heck with the whole, "play along with her game thing" "Aha!" I blurted out, unexpectedly, "You fiend! You never lost your necklace! You faked it" "The jig is up," Margaret Dumont said, her voice filled sorrow. "This is the ABC Family channel's show, "Faking It" I was trying to see how long you could be fooled. I could have won a million dollars" "But you already _have_ a million dollars," said matter-of-factly. "That was part of the role I was playing" I insecurely said, "Oh…I knew that" And that is the case of Ms. Dumont. Cigars and all.  


End file.
